The Things We Keep

by Nikki Kincaid

  Through my grief and shock, I remembered that these guys had lost someone too.

  Beacon Falls’s police station was nothing more than a wing in the brick Administration building, also home to the municipal court, the mayor’s office, and the fire department. The smell of it, a blend of lemon cleaner and old linoleum, brought me back to the time when, after Mom left, I came here every day after school.

  I’d stay with dad until he was off shift, or if he was on a call, I’d hang out with Mitch or Frank (who refused to acknowledge me if I called him Mr. Gunderson) until dad returned.

  Looking back, those days—dubbed in my mind The Good Years—were like the eye of a hurricane. What came before and what came after were some of the darkest times in my life.

  Right after mom left, dad started drinking. He’d leave me alone in the house for hours, believing that, at nine years old, I could look after myself. Then one day I nearly burned down the house while trying to make myself some mac and cheese. With the lights of the fire engine still flashing across the walls, the acrid smell of burnt metal and plastic filling the air, dad vowed to stop drinking. I took to spending my after-school hours at the station.

  Then, suddenly, hanging out with your police officer father became less cool. My new nicknames--narc and pig—floated around me as I walked the halls between classes. Even Zoe, whose own father had just been promoted to Captain—kept her distance during that time. She had the luxury of a mother at home to whom she could go after school.

  As the years went on, I dreaded coming to the station. I argued and complained and pouted, but dad refused to let me stay home alone.

  So I started lying. I told my dad I was hanging out with Zoe or other friends, and one spring I even pretended to join the track team. To be fair, I did join, but I only showed up to the meets because dad was going to be there, and when I wasn’t allowed to participate because I never came to practice, I simply told dad I was injured.

  Needless to say, the police station held a lot of mixed emotions for me. And now add this to the mix.

  “You can stay with me,” Mitch said.

  I didn’t want to be around anyone right now, nor did I think it fair to burden Mitch with a blubbering, emotional wreck. I’d lost my father, but he’d lost his best friend.

  Some of my thoughts must’ve shown on my face because Mitch pulled out his cell phone.

  A few minutes later, I had a room booked at the Fairview Inn along Route 5, just out of town.

  “Mitch,” I said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Chapter 4

  The rumors about who might have killed dad started almost immediately. It was all the hotel staff were talking about when I went down to breakfast the next morning. I wasn’t hungry but my hands were shaking from low blood sugar so I forced myself to have some dry toast and coffee.

  The television in the lobby was turned to the local news, which was abuzz with the case. Reporters were calling it the worst crime to hit Beacon Falls since the St. James case.

  A woman with a frock of fuzzy curly hair was speaking to a reporter on TV. “I’m not saying he got what he deserved but if you ask me, sometimes you get what you got comin’ to you.”

  Rumors of corruption had dogged the city’s police force for years, which left two kinds of people in this town: those who believed the police were corrupt and those who didn’t.

  As if in response to that very idea, the reporter then interviewed an old man she identified as the proprietor of the local tailor shop.

  “The police protect this town and businesses like mine. No one deserves to die like that.”

  My phone pinged. Mitch, texting to see how I was.

  What was I supposed to say?

  After several minutes, he texted again. I’ve got something for you. Your dad would want you to have her.

  Her?

  Dad’s house was off-limits until the forensics team finished their search of the place so I met Mitch at his condo—a place he bought long after I’d moved away. It was a narrow two-story in a new development by the high school. I rang the bell. A dog barked from behind the blinds.

  When had Mitch gotten a dog?

  Mitch swung the door wide and something gray rocketed past him. A gray and black mutt squatted to pee in the small front yard. A license jingled softly from a red collar.

  I looked at Mitch. “You got a dog?”

  The dog finished peeing and came over to me wagging her tail, her whole backend moving with it. I held my hand out for her to sniff.

  “Her name’s Remy’s,” Mitch said. “She’s your dad’s.”

  A cold vice cinched around my heart. Dad didn’t tell me he got a dog.

  “She’s been at the vet,” Mitch said. “Dr. McGraff heard about your dad. She called me.”

  I stared at Mitch as his words sank in. Despite the same close-cropped square haircut he’d had all my life, he looked different. Older, sure, but also more run down. Ragged, you might even say. He’d been promoted to chief of police three years ago and I’d heard he was making a run for sheriff next election.

  “Your dad rescued her about a year ago.”

  I stared at the dog sniffing the ground at my feet.

  “Dad never told me.” With a small effort, I fought back tears.

  Mitch called Remy inside then ushered me through the small condo to a rear-facing kitchen.

  “Remy,” I called. The dog’s ears perked but she continued sniffing the floor looking for scraps. “Remy. Come here.” She ignored me.

  Mitch chuckled. “She’s stubborn.”

  “I—I can’t take her,” I said. “My apartment doesn’t allow dogs.” He didn’t need to know that I’d sublet the place when I drove out here, which meant I didn’t have anywhere to return to. “Why was she at the vet?”

  “Dr. McGraff said she’d been having diarrhea and vomiting, so they kept her for the day.”

  The tiny, seemingly insignificant details of a day loomed before me. “Do you think,” I said, “That if Remy had been home, whoever shot dad would’ve been able to sneak up on him?”

  Mitch leaned against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “We don’t know that someone snuck up on him, Mady.”

  Horror stitched its way into my heart. “Do you think he knew the person who shot him?”

  “I don’t know. But you can’t worry yourself over that.” He smiled. “That’s my job. Okay?”

  “Is that state detective—Ingress—is he any good?”

  Mitch’s jaw moved like he ate something disagreeable. “He’s got a lot of experience.”

  “But you don’t like him?”

  “Not particularly.” He frowned. “But when a cop is killed, the department he worked for can’t be in charge of the investigation.”

  Outside, birds tweeted and twirled in the backyard. A squirrel darted across the top of the fence.

  “Is Zoe okay?” I asked, my voice strange to my ears. It seemed like ages since I’d gotten that message from her. “She texted me.”

  Mitch’s head snapped up. “When?”

  He hadn’t been in the interrogation room when Ingress had asked me about my reason for being in Ohio

  “About a week ago,” I said. “It’s kinda why I’m here. She said she was in trouble.”

  Mitch gave me a startled yet suspicious look. “What’d she say? Exactly?”

  “‘I’m in it bad’.”

  Zoe had overdosed when she was twenty. That was before Dad and I drifted apart. I can still remember the phone call. I’d been at the library, digging through old newspapers, trying to find some detail of mom’s family, when my cell phone rang, too loud in the quiet archive room. When I answered, dad’s voice was strained and my heart immediately clenched, knowing something was wrong.

  “Zoe’s in the hospital. They had to pump her stomach.”

  The guilt I felt at the news had sent me into a deep depression that kept me from taking dad’s c
alls for several months, unable to face whatever he was calling to tell me.

  Now, Mitch’s whole countenance sank into itself, a man burdened under the weight of too much grief. “You know she’s been that way for a long time.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Mitch sighed. “Listen to me, Mady.” He waited until I met his eyes. “You don’t want to get sucked into that stuff, okay?”

  I knew there was a chance Zoe was using me, playing on my sympathies to get money out of me or whatever, but there was something in the way she made contact and then never messaged again that bothered me.

  “Do you need any help with the arrangements?” Mitch asked.

  It took me a moment to recognize that he’d changed the subject. “No. No, I went to school with Troy. I called him on my way over here. I guess I have to order flowers.” I didn’t really know what to do. I’d never had to organize a funeral before.

  A knock sounded on the front door. Remy, who’d finally settled down, leapt up with a bark.

  Mitch frowned and went to the door, Remy at his heels. The dog barked again as Mitch pulled open the front door. I couldn’t see who it was.

  “Savine,” I heard Mitch say. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Oh,” I groaned, sinking deeper into my chair.

  “Chief,” Chris Savine said. A moment later he was in the kitchen, looking tired but professional in his crisp police uniform. He nodded at me. “Madelinna.”

  “Don’t call me that,” I said, though there was no heat behind it. Remy had trailed Chris into the kitchen, her tail going a mile a minute. Although yesterday was a blur, the one thing that stood out was how gentle and comforting Chris had been. I can’t remember if he said anything at all during those hours after I found dad, but he didn’t have to. Just him being there was enough.

  As soon as Chris sat, Remy put her head on his knee, begging for pets. Chris obliged and said, “Chief Mitchell has asked me to assist the State Police with your father’s case.”

  Chris had always been cute, but since I’d been gone, he’d really grown into himself. He sat straight-backed and professional, his gray eyes tired from the long night.

  “We only have two full-timers,” Mitch said, “And with your dad gone…”

  That left only one full timer. Chris Savine.

  “But,” I said. “What about conflict of interest and all that?”

  “He won’t be in charge of the case,” Mitch said. He’d resumed his spot against the counter. “He’ll be like a broker between us and the staties.”

  I nodded, still unsure of things. But what did I know about police procedure?

  Chris glanced at his boss. “Can we have a few minutes, Chief?”

  Mitch hesitated, then called to Remy. “I’ll take her out back.”

  When the back door closed, Chris turned to me.

  “I am really sorry, Mady.”

  I couldn’t look at him, so I focused instead on the game of toss happening in the backyard. Remy barked enthusiastically for Mitch to throw the ball.

  “If me being on the case,” Chris went on. “If it’s too much, I can ask Mitch—I mean, I would hope what happened between us—“

  “What?” I said, more snap in my voice than I’d anticipated. “That I’d forget about it?”

  “No! Jesus, Mady. No, I would never think that. I just thought maybe, you know, it wouldn’t…” He trailed off.

  When Dad told me Chris had become a police officer, I wasn’t surprised. Chris had always taken pity on the less fortunate—which, come to think of it, was probably why he’d dated me in high school.

  “I’ll ask Mitch if he can reassign—“ Chris began.

  “No.” I took a deep breath. “It’s alright. It’s just...it’s a lot.”

  “Your dad was a good guy.”

  Once again I was reminded that I wasn’t the only one who lost someone yesterday. The sucking hollow of grief in my chest yawned wide. I wanted to tell Chris what it had meant to me, his being there yesterday. But the words caught in my throat.

  “And we’re going to do everything we can to find out who killed him.”

  “Do you think it was drugs?” I asked, my voice strained. “Do you think that’s what got him killed?”

  “We don’t know yet,” he said.

  “But—“ I hesitated. “Could he have pissed off the wrong person?”

  Chris glanced through the window. Mitch threw the ball high. Remy leapt for it with enthusiasm. “We’re looking into it. The forensics team didn’t find a lot at the scene.”

  “You have no leads?”

  Did they teach you how to keep your face expressionless at the police academy? Because having grown around cops, and now seeing Chris, I had to wonder.

  “Detective Ingress and his team are canvasing the neighborhood today, looking for anyone who might have seen or heard anything. In the meantime, do you need any help with the funeral arrangements?”

  Chapter 5

  Two days later I was allowed to return to my father’s house. With Remy in the passenger seat, I pulled up to the house on Grangeway, feeling like I was going to lose my breakfast. Mitch had offered to come, but his campaign for sheriff was ramping up, and combine that with the search for dad’s killer, he barely had time to check in on me, let alone hold my hand.

  Besides, a part of me wanted to do this alone. I didn’t know how I would react, being back here, but whatever happened, I didn’t need witnesses.

  As we pulled into the driveway, Remy stood up, her tail whopping my face. She whined in excitement.

  She didn’t know.

  My heart tore in two and I thought I would lose it right then and there. But I took a deep breath and put the car in Park. “Come on, girl,” I said, opening my door. Remy shoved past me, nose to ground, tail in the air. She roamed the driveway excitedly before going up to the front door. She whined, barked, then looked back at me.

  My chest felt hollow.

  I fit my key into the lock and pushed open the door. Remy barked and tore through the house. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell. It was so…dad. Axe body wash mixed with the spicy tang of his aftershave. My father was a vain man. He’d always looked a little like John Dillinger: receding hairline, slightly protruding ears, and a deep clef in the middle of his chin. That, combined with his arrogance and charm made him irresistible to women.

  To accentuate the John Dillinger vibe, Dad always wore his dark hair slicked back from his forehead. He had these two long lines down either side of his mouth, like parentheses, that highlighted the playful sneer he wore constantly.

  His vanity had always irritated the crap out of me, but now it sent a shock wave of grief over me. I’d never see that twist of a smile on his face again when he was pulling a goof-about, his phrase for the jokes and pranks he so adored.

  The second thing I noticed was the fingerprint dust. It was everywhere. Irritation spiked through me. Couldn’t the forensics team at least have cleaned up after themselves?

  I walked through the house, assaulted at every step by the sheer presence of dad. His jackets hung on the hooks by the door, the cups and dishes from his last breakfast were laid out on the towel next to the sink, a newspaper sat on the table, a note scribbled in the margins. Vaguely, I was aware of the dull rush of air conditioning. When had dad gotten A/C?

  The officers who had searched the place had done a nice job of not disturbing things too much: a couple drawers sat askew on their tracks, the bed was unmade (something dad would never have tolerated), several books on the shelf in the spare bedroom had been riffled through and sat haphazardly on the pull-out couch. I hesitated at the sliding doors in the spare bedroom. They led to the deck in the backyard. I swallowed, feeling bile rise in my throat. Remy came up beside me, nose snuffling the curtains.

  Yellow crime scene tape strung around the perimeter of the yard flapped in the breeze.

  “No, I’m sorry, girl,
” I said, pulling Remy from the room and closing the door. “You can’t go back there.”

  This house breathed dad in every corner, every dusty nook, every disorganized cranny. The few pictures on the wall were mostly of me, of course. The summer we’d spent camping in West Virginia, the trip to Disney Land where I’d eaten so much junk food, I spent the first night vomiting in our hotel room. My senior picture with my terrible haircut.

  I stared at a picture of dad with his mom. Dad’s father had died when he was young, and since he’d had no siblings, he and his mother had always been really close. Grandma Graves used to describe her and dad as a “team of one,” which was her way of saying how close they were. I remember, after mom left, wanting to be a team of one with my dad. And for a while there, I thought maybe we were, but then, little by little, things changed, relationships shifted, cracks appeared, and our team of one fractured.

  Grandma wore her hair in tight white curls, and shared my dad’s playfulness, as well as the lines around his mouth. The two of them, side by side, looked just like they were in life: double trouble. I remember one time coming home after school to find them giggling hysterically. When I asked what had happened, they told me they’d spent their day in the mall parking lot, drawing silly faces on windshields in the fresh-fallen snow.

  Remy followed me from room to room, never getting too close. I wanted to touch everything and nothing. This house was where my dad and I had made a go of it after my mom left. But it was also where we’d suffered our greatest fights, where we hurled our most long-lasting hurts, some of them burrowing deep.

  He’d made some upgrades since I’d left. A fifty-inch television with surround sound and a PlayStation. A stainless-steel dishwasher. New hardwood floors—the real stuff, too, not that fake laminate crap. And of course, the A/C.

  Shaky and exhausted, I went into my bedroom. Dad had left it pretty much as it had been when I moved out. Except he painted the walls a fresh shade of beige, which compared to the dark blue I’d insisted upon, actually opened up the space and breathed a whole new life into the space.